


The Truth

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From brutti_ma_buoni 's prompt: "Giles meets Lorne over cocktails and karaoke." Not surprisingly, Spike seems to have butted in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> For antennapedia 's Drunken!Giles ficathon. Gratitude as always to my lovely beta, silk_labyrinth. Also, thanks to thea_bromine for letting me steal the top shelf reference.

**Title** :The Truth  
 **Pairing** : Spike/Giles  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Joss  
 **Summary:** From 's prompt: "Giles meets Lorne over cocktails and karaoke." Not surprisingly, Spike seems to have butted in.  
 **Author's Notes** :For 's Drunken!Giles ficathon. Gratitude as always to my lovely beta, . Also, thanks to for letting me steal the top shelf reference. 

**  
The Truth   
**

Giles glanced at his watch and was amazed to discover it was nearly eight o’clock at night. Jet lag and the nine hours’ time difference had upset his inner clock, and of course the casino was carefully designed so as to give no hint of passing time. No windows, no clocks. Just bright flashing lights and machines that whirred and clanked; and over everything, the faint odor of alcohol and illicit cigarette smoke.

He stood and stretched, frowning ruefully at the video screen. He was down nearly one hundred dollars. Playing video poker had been a mistake—no opportunity for him to use the subtle cues of human psychology to suss out his opponents—but he hadn’t been in the mood to interact with other people and he’d had time to kill.

The casino's layout was intentionally disorienting and it took him several minutes to find an exit. The sun had set a half hour earlier, but stepping outside still felt a bit like entering an oven. Sweat immediately formed around his collar and dripped maddeningly down his back. He considered taking off his jacket and folding it over his arm, but somehow that would have been like removing his armor. He raised his arm and flagged down one of the taxis that prowled the Strip.

“The Babylon, please,” he said to the driver. The driver grunted and zoomed away from the curb.

The Babylon was at the opposite end of the Strip from the hotel that Andrew had booked for him. Giles didn’t know whether Andrew had purposely placed him a distance from the meeting locale, or whether the boy was simply ignorant of Las Vegas geography. Perhaps the tiny map on Andrew’s computer screen made the two locationsappear to be nearly next door. In any case, the traffic was heavy and it took some time to reach their destination. The fare was surprisingly steep, but Giles tipped the driver anyway. It wasn’t his money he was spending.

The Babylon wasn’t as horrible as he’d feared. The employees were dressed in revealing costumes that were mildly influenced by ancient Egypt, and the statuary was more Assyrian than anything else, but the effect wasn’t as tasteless as the faux Venice, the ersatz Paris, or Las Vegas’s other questionable cultural landmarks. And a huge plus: the air conditioning was on full blast. Giles wandered about for a few minutes before stopping a buxom girl in a very short tunic with gold and red embroidery around the neck and hem. “Pardon me,” he said. “Could you direct me to the bar?”

“Which one? We have six.”

“Yes. Erm, Hammurabi’s.” He mumbled the name, slightly embarrassed over it, but of course she was very accustomed to her employer’s theme.

“Straight ahead to the Tower,” she said, pointing at a very tall structure that appeared to contain one of the bars. “Then hang a right, turn left after the sports book, and then another right after the elevators. If you get to the hair salon you’ve gone too far.”

He nodded his thanks and wished he’d mastered the use of his smart phone's GPS. But he only got lost twice along the way, finally foundering his way into a dimly-lit bar with a tiny stage along one wall. He was relieved to find the décor understated and the tables only half filled, but was considerably less pleased to discover that the woman onstage was caterwauling along with a karaoke machine. She was close to his own age—at least as far as he could tell under her thick makeup—and her blouse sported a sequined pattern that made him feel slightly dizzy. 

He chose a booth in the far corner, as distant from the stage as possible and positioned so that he could easily view the entire establishment. A waiter approached—thankfully, attired in ordinary trousers and shirt—and asked for his order. “Scotch please,” Giles answered. “Neat.”

“What brand do you prefer, sir?”

Giles was suddenly too exhausted to think of anything at all; the waiter took pity on him. “Top shelf, sir?”

A rather vivid image jumped into Giles’ mind of the magazines he kept hidden under his socks and handkerchiefs. But then he remembered that he was back in the US, and that the waiter's phrase had a very different meaning here than in the UK. “That will be fine,” he answered. But as the waiter turned to leave, Giles added, “Make it a double, why don’t you.”

The alcohol was smooth and comforting. Probably shockingly expensive as well, but the Council could pay. The Council _should_ pay. He hadn’t any desire to return to the States, and even the idea of Las Vegas made him shudder. Usually, it was Xander who went on errands like this. But yet another of Xander’s lovers had turned out to be a demon, and the boy—well, man now, Giles had to admit—was still recovering from the experience. They surely could have found someone else to take his place, but Willow had shoved Giles’ passport into his hand and rolled her eyes. “Go,” she said. “It’s been forever since you took a vacation.”

“It’s not a holiday,” Giles said aloud in the Hammurabi, then blushed, but nobody was close enough to hear him. Besides, the woman onstage was squalling her way through a Celine Dion song and very little was audible over her cacophony. It wasn’t a holiday. A holiday was … quiet time in the countryside, with books and horses and tromping through the mud, and a roaring fire in the evenings with a bottle of scotch at hand. At least he had the scotch.

He waited for his contact to arrive and finished off two more drinks, while the woman was replaced by a pair of drunken girls in their twenties who had a penchant for Lady Gaga, and then a middle-aged black man who mangled Marvin Gaye. But when the man began to warble “You Sexy Thing,” and Giles’ glass had magically emptied itself again, Giles decided he’d had enough. He stood and straightened his jacket and made his way carefully to the little stage. A few members of the audience clapped as he seated himself on the wobbly stool, while a few others hooted quietly. He ignored them all, scrolling through the playlist. He wished he had his guitar.

“Ah,” he said when he found something appropriate. The music began, and he didn’t need to read the lyrics in order to sing them. The small crowd settled, and by the time he reached the end of the second verse— _Once I was strong but I lost the fight. You won’t find a better loser._ —he’d nearly forgotten he had an audience at all. They clapped loudly when he was finished, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t sung for their benefit. 

In what he hoped was a dignified manner, he stood up from the stool, stepped off the stage, around a tall green man in a yellow suit, and retreated to his booth. Somewhat put out to discover his glass still empty, he didn’t even look up when someone approached the table. “Another,” Giles said, holding out the glass.

“Maybe it’s time to slow down, big guy.”

Giles’ head snapped up. It was the green man and—wait. _Green_ man? “You’re a demon!” Giles accused.

The demon sighed loudly, like a hissing steam engine, and slid into the opposite seat. “And you’re a Watcher with a heartload of grief.” He was wearing a red ascot that matched his horns, and he looked more sorrowful than sinister.

Giles fumbled in his coat pockets, wondering if he’d remembered to re-arm himself after he left the airport. What sort of weapon did one use against this species of demon anyway? But then the waiter brought another glass of scotch, and as Giles was gulping it he remembered where he was and why he was there. “You’re my contact,” he said, finally looking the demon in his crimson eyes.

“And you’re a little slow on the uptake. Strange. I heard you were the brainy type.”

Giles glared a bit before holding out his hand. “Rupert Giles.”

The demon shook it. His palm was very warm. “Krevlornswath of the Deathwok Clan. Lorne, to my friends.”

“Have you—”

“Hang on there, cowboy. Little pitchers.” Lorne waved his hand to indicate the other customers. “How ’bout we go somewhere more private?”

Giles nodded and reached for his wallet. “I’ll just settle the bill.”

“It’s on the house. C’mon, Rupert.”

With a brief pause to wonder when anyone had last used his given name, Giles followed the Technicolor demon across the bar and to a door marked Private. The door led to a cramped hallway—no attempt at a Mesopotamian theme here, just shelves of liquor, paper goods, and plastic buckets of shelled peanuts—and through another door, this one unmarked. They were in a small office, the walls covered with autographed photos of celebrities. Lorne settled himself behind a mahogany desk and gestured for Giles to sit in the plush velvet chair opposite him.

“You work here?” Giles asked, feeling as if he were still several steps behind.

“Manage the place, actually. And sing on weekends.”

“But you’re, erm ….”

“Pylean-American? You bet. But you’d be surprised what passes for normal in this town.”

Giles rubbed one temple and wondered whether he could ask for more scotch. “Have you the artifact?”

“Sure, pumpkin.” Lorne opened a desk drawer and produced a sparkly silver and magenta gift bag, which he set in front of Giles. “Here you go. You’re gonna be careful with that, right? ’Cause if you’re not, about half of the northern hemisphere is gonna be having a really bad hair day.”

“I am an experienced Watcher. I know how to manage items with mystical properties.”

“Didn’t mean to cast aspersions, big guy. Just doing my duty. I kinda like this crazy old world.”

Giles nodded curtly and reached for the bag. He peeked inside, but all that was visible were wads of metallic tissue paper. The bag had the right heft, however, and because he was drunk and exhausted he decided to trust the demon. He placed the bag in his lap and looked at Lorne as steadily as his bleary eyesight would permit. “And the price?”

Lorne steepled his hands and leaned back in his chair, staring at him appraisingly. “Now we get to the interesting part.”

 _  
Interesting   
_   
is not the term Giles would have used. Despite the drinks and despite the steely resolve he’d tried to build during the long flight, his palms were sweaty and his hands might have been shaking a bit if he weren’t clutching his knees. He waited for Lorne to say more, but the demon only looked at him, eyes slightly squinted and head cocked. Finally, Giles cleared his throat. “I understand the, the recipient must, erm, perform a … service.”

“Yeah, that’s the deal. If it was up to me, I’d go for cold, hard cash. I found this new tailor in Milan and the sky’s the limit with him.” He smoothed at a mustard-colored lapel. “But you know how these magic doodads are, all with the caveats and special clauses. This one requires a service. The gal I got it from? I had to get her a private dinner date with Jared and Jensen, and let me tell you, that took some serious schmoozing.”

Giles hadn’t any idea whom Lorne was talking about and didn’t care. He lifted his chin defiantly. “I won’t do anything that’s harmful to others.”

“Relax. I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Giles didn’t relax, because he could imagine a great many things a demon might ask of him without violating his proscription, and none of them were pleasant.

But Lorne sighed and leaned forward. “Look. I was only trying to do a good deed, ’cause I figure it can’t hurt to tip the moral scales in my favor once in a while, you know? I was just going to ask you to wash my car or something.”

“Was?” Giles replied.

Lorne gave a half shrug and smiled. “Until I heard you sing. That’s quite a set of pipes you’ve got—and quite a hole in your middle.”

Giles glanced down as if he might see a gaping wound in his gut. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Look, sweetheart. You’ve done your duty, and you’ve done it well. They’re all grown up now and that nest is looking pretty empty. Maybe you’re a little too … mature … to play errand boy and you’re tired of all those dusty books. And the mission, it’s not so clear anymore, is it?”

Giles gaped at him. He’d had more to drink than he realized. But he attempted to pull a bit of dignity about himself. “You’re mistaken,” he said with a scowl.

Lorne’s sad little smile didn’t fade. “My second sight’s always 20/20, I’m afraid.” Then he stood, gesturing at Giles to remain seated. “You just sit tight, Rupert. I have a little setup to do.” He opened the door and glanced back at Giles. “Be back in two shakes of a little lamb’s tail.”

The door closed with a sort of certainty that increased Giles’ unease. He took a more careful look around the room and noticed several bottles lined up neatly along one shelf. “Ah,” he said aloud, and then shambled across the room to inspect them. They turned out to be flavored vodkas for the most part. Not his drink, but needs must. He chose a bottle of Absolut Mandarin, unscrewed the cap, and took several gulps. He could barely taste it at this point anyway, although it seared his throat pleasantly as it went down. Then, feeling a bit like a naughty schoolboy—and pushing away the rather, erm, diverting images that phrase produced in his brain—he replaced the bottle and returned to his chair.

The green demon looked a bit flustered when he returned, giving Giles the impression that the “setup”—whatever that meant—hadn’t been easy. But Lorne smiled at him nonetheless. “This isn’t normally my kind of thing, big guy. But I happen to have a pal in a similar state, and I’m thinking maybe I can kill two Brits with one stone.”

Giles blinked owlishly. “Kill?” His tongue wasn’t following directions properly.

“Only a figure of speech. Okay, here’s the deal. I’m gonna take you to a room. Someone’s waiting for you there. You have to stay inside for at least an hour, and while you’re in there, you have to promise you’ll answer his questions completely honestly.”

“Who?” Giles asked, feeling more owl-like than ever.

“If I told you now, I’d ruin the surprise. C’mon.”

As sodden as Giles’ brain was, he was quite certain he didn’t like this scheme at all. He couldn’t even remember exactly how he’d been put in this position. Something to do with the gift bag he was holding in one hand, he thought. But he couldn’t muster the words to argue, and he found himself trailing after Lorne down the corridor—which had taken up the habit of rolling like a ship at sea—and through a back door. They wound their way past blinking, shrieking machines that might possibly have been demonic and then entered a lift. Lorne pushed a button and they stood there, listening to Muzak Led Zeppelin. Lorne winced when Giles began to hum along.

The upstairs hallway was pitching and rolling too; Giles had to hold a wall for support. “They ought to build these places more sturdily,” he muttered.

Lorne paused in front of a door, swiped his key card, and turned the handle. But he didn’t enter. “Here ya go, pumpkin. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You’re not … you’re not coming inside?”

“Not for all the tea in China.”

“How will you know if I’m honest then?”

Propping the door with his foot, Lorne rested his hands on Giles’ shoulders. “Because you are an honorable man. Go get ’em, tiger.” With a pat to the back that was really more of a push, Lorne urged him into the room. The door thudded shut behind him.

Giles wasn’t certain whom he’d been expecting. A Mafia thug, perhaps—he understood that organized crime ran rampant in this city—although what La Cosa Nostra would want with him he hadn’t any idea. He thought that maybe he might encounter another demon. And in fact, a demon is exactly what he found in the hotel room. A vampire, as a matter of fact. But he certainly hadn’t expected this particular vampire.

Giles’ legs gave out and he landed on his arse with a _thunk_ that might have been painful if he were sober. The gift bag slipped from his nerveless fingers. “Spike!”

Spike—for it was undoubtedly he: bleached hair, leather duster, sneer, and all—barked a laugh but didn’t move away from the far corner of the room. “You’re rat-arsed. Smell like a distillery.”

“I am not,” Giles responded, and then remembered his promise to Lorne. “Erm, perhaps I am. A bit.”

Spike laughed again and watched as Giles made his wobbly way back onto his feet, then tottered across the room to collapse onto the edge of the bed. “What are you doing here?” Giles demanded.

“ ’T’s my place, innit?”

Giles took a more careful look about himself through bleary eyes and realized that there were more personal touches than in the usual hotel room. The comforter he was sitting on was standard-issue gold and maroon, but especially large and heavy draperies flanked the window and a small bookcase was crammed with paperbacks. There were overflowing ashtrays and empty whiskey bottles, and a microwave atop a miniature refrigerator. “You’re meant to be ashes,” Giles finally said.

Spike gave a half shrug. “Nine unlives.”

“But after Sunnydale—”

“Got resurrected in the City of Angels,” Spike finished wearily.

“Were you there when … when …”

“When the poof fought his bloody battle? Yeah. Sole survivor here.” Spike looked less pleased about that than Giles might have expected, but then Giles hadn’t been aware that anything had survived the fight. His sources had informed him that the evil law firm was destroyed, but so were Angel and his allies.

“But why are you _here_?” asked Giles.

“Told you. ’T’s my room.” Spike finally peeled himself away from the wall and took a few steps to the desk, where a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were sitting next to a closed laptop. He shook out a cigarette and lit it, exhaling a long plume of smoke. Giles abruptly found himself wishing he still smoked as well, even though he’d kicked the habit years ago.

“But why are you in Las Vegas?” Giles asked.

“Why not? Seemed as likely a place as any. Greenjeans found me a position—casino security—and a place to sleep. But now I owe him a favor and he wants me to ask you questions.” Spike narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I’ve no idea.”

They eyed one another suspiciously until Giles noticed that the bottle of Jack Daniels near his feet still contained an inch or two of liquid. He swooped up the bottle and downed the booze quickly. “Definitely not top shelf,” he muttered to himself, and then emitted a slightly hysterical giggle.

Spike raised an eyebrow, took another drag, and picked up the pad of notepaper next to the phone. “Right then. Lorne said to begin with these.” He frowned at the list and shook his head. “No. Gonna start with one of my own. How’s the Slayer these days?”

Giles had to think for a moment before he replied. “She’s … well. She assumed the mantle of leadership of the Council. She’s good at it.”

Spike nodded, worked his jaw, and looked away. “Does she ever mention me?”

“Sometimes,” Giles admitted, and then added, “Fondly. She credits you with averting the apocalypse in Sunnydale.”

The vampire’s jaw clenched again and he sniffed. “And if you told her I’m still undead?”

“I expect she’d be on the next flight over.”

Another nod, followed immediately by a shake of the head. “Don’t. She’s … she’s better off not knowing, yeah?”

“Yes,” Giles said in honest agreement. But he was surprised that Spike had such insight. Maybe the vampire’s recent experiences—and more time with his soul intact—had made him wiser.

Spike stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and straddled the room’s single chair so that he was facing Giles. “Do you wish the Slayer’s son had finished me off?” he asked, still not referring to his pad of paper.

Shame washed through Giles like a bilious wave. “No. I was … I was wrong. What I did was wrong. I’m sorry.” And he was slightly surprised to realize that he meant those words most sincerely.

“Could you ever trust something like me?”

“I don’t believe there is anything else quite like you, Spike. But yes, I suppose I could trust you as much as I’d trust any other man. Perhaps even more than some.” Several generations of his forebears were likely rolling in their graves, but he meant what he’d said. Giles had actually considered this question already as he sat in his little flat in London, thinking over the past years’ events and the choices he’d made. Spike had killed—but then, so had Giles, hadn’t he?—but Spike had kept his word and protected Dawn, and he’d supported Buffy when her closest friends had wavered. 

Something softened in Spike’s sharp eyes and the corner of his mouth twitched. “You really are bladdered, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Giles answered, although he was already looking around in vain for more alcohol.

With a shake of his head, Spike glanced down at his list. Both eyebrows raised as he read the first question to himself. “Don’t know what he has up his tailored sleeve,” he mumbled, and then more loudly said, “Are you lonely, Rupert?”

Giles didn’t want to answer. But he had made a promise, and in any case what was the point of pretending? “Very,” he sighed.

“No bird for you? Or bloke?” Spike hastily added, “That was the next question, the bloke bit.”

Willow had made it quite clear that she had certain suspicions about Giles’ sexuality, and that she was willing to discuss the issue with him. But he’d always felt that his personal relationships were private matters and he’d managed to avoid the topic. Until now. “There’s no one right now. And if you must know, yes, I have sometimes found myself interested in men as well as women.”

To Giles’ surprise, Spike responded only with a quick grin. Of course, Giles knew from his reading of the Diaries that vampires in general—and Spike in particular—were often not overly particular about the gender of their partners. In fact, there had been a rather … detailed … bit in the Diaries concerning William the Bloody and Angelus, and their activities more than a century earlier. Giles had never shared that bit with Buffy; although truth be told—and the truth _was_ being told tonight, wasn’t it?—he’d read it himself more than once, and with more than a detached interest.

Spike looked down at his list again. He hesitated before asking quietly, “Do you feel at loose ends, Rupert?”

“If you mean to ask whether my life currently lacks direction, yes. I daresay it does.”

“Surely there are more monsters to fight.”

“There are always more monsters, Spike. You know that as well as I. But there are others who are much better suited to fight them.”

“Right. Legions of baby Slayers.” Spike cocked his head. “Are you tired of the struggle, Watcher?”

“Not … not exactly.” Giles looked down at his lap through the glass of the empty bottle. “I’m unsure now what my place is in the struggle.”

Giles didn’t look up, but he could feel Spike’s gaze on him, and then he heard the slight creak of the chair as Spike stood. Soft footsteps sounded on the carpet, coming nearer. “What do you want, Rupert?”

His eyes still cast downward, Giles didn’t know whether Spike’s question was another from Lorne’s list. “I’m not sure,” Giles answered softly. “Meaning. Companionship. Perhaps a bit of excitement now and then.”

“Excitement suited for a man of your age?”

Giles snapped his head up to glare, but then his shoulders drooped. “I still feel like I’m sixteen most days, a boy trying desperately to act like a man.” He snorted at his own foolishness. Why was he admitting to more than Spike had asked? “Like a boy trapped in an old man’s body.”

“Old? You’re a babe in nappies compared to me.”

“Perhaps. But you still look youthful.”

Something shifted in the ice-blue of Spike’s eyes. “And desirable?”

Giles silently cursed his promises and the green demon who’d demanded them. “Yes,” he whispered.

With a slow smile that wasn’t quite evil, Spike dropped the pad of paper and then fell to his knees. Giles’ mouth went very dry as Spike crawled nearer, pried Giles’ legs apart, and shoved his own body between them. He lay his head gently against Giles’ crotch. “Do you like this?” His voice was slightly muffled by the cloth of Giles’ trousers.

Suddenly and completely sober, Giles set his hand on Spike’s gelled hair and began to work the curls free. “Yes,” he said.

***

Lorne really had intended to return to Spike’s room in an hour. But his waiter had gotten into a tiff with the bartender and it took forever for Lorne to smooth all the ruffled feathers; then a customer had attempted to sing “Sweet Caroline” for the third time in a row, leading to a minor revolt among the other customers; and then there was an unexpected run on Blue Hawaiians and Lorne had to run around to Babylon’s other five bars, trying to scrounge more pineapple juice. By the time Hammurabi’s was emptied of customers, cleaned, and locked up, Lorne’s Rolex told him that dawn had already broken.

He liked the hush at this time of day. Yes, a few diehard gamblers still sat at their slot machines, eyes glazed over like zombies—in fact, he suspected a few of them might actually _be_ zombies—but most of floor was deserted. One of the daytime security guards waved at Lorne as he made his way to the elevators, and Lorne waved back. He liked Babylon. It was home.

He hesitated a moment in front of Spike’s door. He could hear recorded music playing faintly inside—Blind Faith, he noted automatically—and he carefully swiped his passkey through the reader.

Rupert and Spike were sprawled on the bed. Spike was completely naked, and probably Rupert was as well, although it was hard to tell, considering the way the vampire was plastered on top of his body. Rupert’s arms were wrapped firmly around Spike’s waist, and Spike’s shapely butt was slightly reddened, as if someone had given him a good spanking. Both of them looked sated and content, even in their sleep.

The gift bag was still on the floor, unopened. Lorne wondered how long it would take before Rupert and Spike discovered that it contained only an extra-large bottle of Boy Butter.

Lorne backed out of the room and closed the door gently. Calculating time zones in his head, he concluded that now would be an excellent time to phone London. That cute little witch would be pleased to learn that her plan had worked—if not exactly as she’d imagined, seeing as how Lorne hadn’t tipped her off to Spike’s presence in Vegas. The truth could be a really useful thing, he reflected, but sometimes you were better off with little white lies.

 _  
~~~fin~~~   
_


End file.
